The Seamstress And The Woodsman
by meetmeinstlouie
Summary: She is a Scottish seamstress, come to Downton late in life to live quietly alone. He left Downton only once in his youth, and returned to live in the woods on the edge of the estate. Both are outcasts, but will they find common ground?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is mostly an exercise to see if I can write a complete story and post it regularly, with an added bonus of Chelsie. Alright, it's all about Chelsie. AU written in the time period of canon.**

She never thought she would leave Scotland.

But after seeing her reflection in the water basin the morning of her only sister's burial, she knew she couldn't stay there. _She_ looked more like the dead. Becky at least looked asleep.

So Elsie Hughes sold the farm to Joe Burns. He had courted her, once. Years before time and worry and relentless rain and no money and hands rough as splinters had worn her into a drudge. A shadow of the girl she'd been.

The farmer shook her hand and wished her luck. His palm felt softer than hers. It wasn't until he asked where she was going that she had an answer.

Somewhere other than the place she'd been born.

_Yorkshire._

Her accent would be strange in the south, but with Becky gone she suddenly felt like a caged bird that had been released. If she didn't fly now, she never would.

She went to Leeds first. There was work for a skilled seamstress. Sewing wasn't what she was used to, but her rough fingers were nimble and grand dames paid well for her work. And with the money she earned, she quickly paid off her remaining debts after the sale of the farm. When the winter was over one of the ladies she'd sewn for recommended a place outside the city. A place in the country.

Downton was a great improvement for the most part. Not too big like Leeds, not too remote like her Argyll farm. Her cottage was small, only three rooms. The rent was manageable. There was a solid if ancient fireplace, and the walls stayed dry. She planted vegetables when spring came. In between tending them and sewing for the ladies at the Abbey, she took walks.

It was not all pleasant, however. A man riding his horse frowned at her threadbare shawl and shabby clothes. He crossed the road, as though not wanting to be seen near her.

Children hissed at her and called her an old witch. Sometimes they shouted at her to "Go home to the woodsman!" She didn't know what it meant. Some English phrase, she thought.

It was plain that folks in the village thought she was odd. Maybe she was. Back in Scotland she never had spoken to many people. Except the parson on Sundays, Joe or one of his lads, or the doctor. She had spoken mostly to Becky, but those had always been one-sided conversations. Now she was content to listen. But it was difficult when others kept trying to get her to talk. Like some of her friendlier, if persistent, neighbors. And the cook at the Abbey whose bark was far worse than her bite.

Where was Argyll? Was that very far away? Did she have family in Yorkshire? Where was her husband?

The last question was not asked outright, only once by the nosy postmistress. Women whispered as she passed by, wondering about her lack of a man, as though her silence meant she was deaf. She never answered or addressed their curiosity. Her mother's wedding ring had been on her finger since the day Mam died. She had never had a husband, and she never would. Not now that she was nearer the grave than to the wedding bower.

She missed Becky. It was strange to live on her own.

Though she often thought that her sister was like her, in a way – free from a world that didn't understand her. Maybe it never had.

Still, it was lonely to have no one but herself in the cottage.

Sometimes she had an eerie feeling someone was watching her. She would get up from her knees, tending to her growing plants, hair prickling on the back of her neck, and look towards the road and the copse beyond – and see no one. Once, after admiring a shop window in Downton, she had the same sensation. Twice while walking to the Abbey to deliver bits of the bride's trousseau she was certain someone was following her.

A stray dog started coming by the cottage. He walked with a bit of a limp, but it was clear he'd been cared for. After she fed him twice, he stayed. He was usually quiet. As the days got longer, though, he got louder. He chased rabbits away from her carrots. He barked at nothing at dusk. He barked at the neighbors until he learned who the friendly ones were.

Sewing part of bride's veil outside one fine day, she relished the sunshine, her toes in the damp earth. Her kind neighbor Tim Drewe leaned on his spade and talked over the fence about the Family's news.

The Earl's eldest daughter was to wed her cousin at long last in the autumn, and thereby the estate saved. It was said that the new valet was sweet on the pretty head housemaid. Not many housekeepers would tolerate such goings-on. Mrs. Smith was an adequate housekeeper at the Big House, though no one liked her much and it was rumored the housemaids did most of the work. Some said she enjoyed a tipple in the evenings.

His Lordship had sacked his butler. This happened often, Elsie's neighbor told her. Since the old Earl had died, there had been a steady stream of butlers. Some were easy-going, some were tyrannical, some were pompous, and some were useless. None stayed long. It was too bad the Family had such bad luck with them. Mr. Drewe shook his head. When he was a boy, the talk was that Charles Carson would be butler. He was a junior footman who learned fast, who seemed born in livery. It had been inevitable, the farmer said.

Until it wasn't. The young Carson had left and gone to London, only to return two years and five days later on the milk train. He hadn't moved back into the Abbey, or into his family's old cottage (Drewe nodded at her home). Instead he went straight into the woods on the edge of the estate. He rarely came out except at planting time or harvest to help out, or to go up to the Abbey a few times a year to poke about in the wine cellar. He didn't speak to many people. God knows what he'd gotten up to in London. He'd gone funny, some said. An ordinary woodsman, living alone…

Elsie lifted her head. She asked Drewe if Mr. Carson still lived in the woods.

Yes, his home was rumored to be a tiny house hidden in the trees. No one visited him there. There were rumors that the Dowager Countess or the Earl's eldest and youngest daughters sometimes went to see him, but those up at the Abbey who knew for certain didn't say, and those who didn't know said so much no one believed them.

It was said Mr. Carson never bathed; that he was so dirty earthworms grew under his toenails. Some folks said he kept squirrels for pets. Others said he had lived alone so long he'd forgotten how to talk. Drewe said most of it wasn't true – he couldn't say for certain about the squirrels. The woodsman had helped him with the planting and the harvest before. He was clean enough for spending most of his days outdoors. He spoke just fine.

Maybe it wasn't that he didn't talk, Elsie thought. Maybe he was just trying to listen.

Like her.

She caught glimpses of the woodsman that spring. Helping another farmer with his planting. Loading a wagon full of sheep. Setting down a pan of milk for the cats outside the Drewe's house. He didn't look odd to her at all, dressed in old clothes and with a crown of silver hair. In fact, she thought him rather handsome. He had a natural, dignified bearing, one that would have fit within the walls of Downton Abbey.

She kept thinking about him. During a rainstorm, she thought of his unseen cottage, and hoped his roof didn't leak. She wondered why he had never returned to his childhood home that was now hers. On blazing hot days, she hoped he could find shelter under the trees. As she surveyed her growing vegetables, and bought milk and cream from the dairyman, she wondered what he would do for food come winter.

Unable to sleep, she wondered if he was awake too.

No man had ever occupied her mind like him. Not even Joe in her younger days.

Somehow he had touched her heart. Was it love? Whatever she felt, it strengthened as the days went by until she thought she would go mad.

I must go see him, she thought.

She found out that the Earl sometimes bought wood from Mr. Carson, though nearly everything was run by coal these days. Well, if his Lordship dealt with him, so could she.

Before she lost her nerve, she took a newly woven blanket and went to see the woodsman. Wheel tracks led deep into the trees. When she lost those, she found a narrow footpath. She was just beginning to fear she'd gotten lost when she heard humming.

Then the sound of an axe biting into wood.

In the light of a clearing she saw him chopping up a small branch next to a dead maple. He wore old trousers and braces, but no shirt. Close up, his skin was brown, his ears were large, his arms were long, and his legs were longer. Her cheeks grew warm. He was strong.

He sang as he chopped, his broad back to her. "Dashing away with a smoothing iron, dashing away with a smoothing iron, dashing away with a smoothing iron, she stole my heart away…"

Her heart eased and she smiled. He hadn't forgotten how to talk, much less how to sing. She cleared her throat.

"Mr. Carson?"

He jumped in surprise, swore, and dropped his axe.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I can't thank you all enough for your support! I'm really chuffed. And happy that I had already written several thousand words before posting the first chapter. :-)**

* * *

He never thought he would become a recluse.

But after Alice broke his heart and Charles Grigg betrayed him, he had left for home the very next day. Desperate to retreat to a world that made sense.

When he had left for London two years before it had been an adventure. The city, the stage, and the crowds were everything he had never had at home. Everything had seemed possible.

Until it had all dissolved, like waking from a dream and finding oneself in a nightmare.

The familiar sight of the Abbey had given Charles Carson no comfort, much to his dismay. It was the symbol of all he had left behind, the place he had thought never to see again. He had no thought of returning to the cottage, his boyhood home. It had ceased to be so after his parents died. He had walked straight past both places. Into the woods.

And he had lived there ever since.

The woods at its best was a tangled mess of overgrown roots and branches. It was not frightening (except to small children and those with overactive imaginations), but nor was it friendly. It just was.

Safe, secluded, never-changing.

An old woodcutter's shack had provided a roof over his head. His strong arms and the woods around had provided the means to eke out a living. His home was primitive. Over time, though, he built floorboards over the dirt and made a new door. He also fashioned a bookshelf.

Not that he spent much time indoors. In warm weather he often slept outside, having never acquired nor built a bed (not that there was room for one). He studied the birds and other creatures who shared the woods. Plants fascinated him. Whenever he chopped down a tree he planted another. He did live in the Earl's woods, after all. It was his duty to take care of it.

He had stood just outside the shelter of the trees on the day of the old Earl's funeral. The young Earl came to visit him one week later. He promised Charles his job back at the Abbey if he wanted it.

I'm too old to be a footman, Charles had thought. If he had stayed in service instead of going to London he would have been under-butler by then. Or better yet, Butler.

But did he miss it? The longer he lived his own life the better he had liked it. He served himself and the world around him. No bells or mind-numbing routine. No long hours catering to those who barely noticed him, or noticed the opulence in which they dwelled. Hadn't he left Downton to escape all that in the first place?

In the woods the things he treasured were not _things_ – green shoots coming up from a dead stump; the bees buzzing during a summer noon; the first snow of the year, crisp and unbroken.

He put animals at their ease and gave them food. Squirrels and rabbits, the stray barn cat. Once he came upon a doe in a clearing. Holding his breath, he inched closer and closer until he could reach out and touch her. The next spring she let him feed her fawn from his own hand.

Young things of his own kind were not so trusting. If they saw him, most of them ran. For a long time it didn't bother him.

Boys sometimes cawed behind fences and from across the fields at him, like he was a scarecrow. He endured it until his sixtieth year, when he shaved off his beard. And he let Mrs. Drewe cut his hair properly twice a year.

As the years passed, it became easier to stay where he was. The glimpses he caught: the train running ever faster along the tracks, telegraph wires on the road, were fierce reminders of a changing world he no longer understood. Maybe he never had. It was easier to chop wood, and help the occasional farmer.

He did go to the Abbey a few times a year at the Earl's gracious bequest (instead of paying rent while living on his land). He'd go through the wine cellar and help his Lordship choose the right ones for a dinner party or banquet. Time spent in the outdoors had sharpened his smell. He could find the subtleties in a merlot, sense when a cabernet was on the verge of spoiling before anyone else could.

It wasn't true, the whispers that he had forgotten to talk. Or that he never bathed. An ancient kettle was used daily for tea, and an even more ancient (and far too small) washtub was using for bathing. He was still a man of course, a _civilized _man, no matter what most people thought. And he was an Englishman. He simply did not care to be around most English people. Let alone foreigners, though hardly any came to Downton.

The cook at the Abbey became a friend. After he'd dabble in the wine cellar, she often would not let him leave without a cup of tea and some cake. She knew he had a sweet tooth. Her kindness was the exception to the rule downstairs.

"The woodsman's here again," the sneering first footman would tell her Ladyship's maid, not bothering to lower his voice. "We'll have to air out the servant's hall."

Some in grander circumstances were friendly. The young Earl, soon after marrying, had welcomed a daughter. Two more followed. The middle one was a little afraid of the woodsman. The eldest and youngest, however, came to see him from time to time in his quiet home. Sometimes they visited with their governess, and sometimes with their grandmother.

It was when he first saw the Earl's eldest daughter that Charles thought he had strayed from a better path. After her visits he often wondered how much better he could have gotten to know her if he had stayed at the Abbey. She seemed to understand him. At least, she listened to him.

She wasn't afraid of him at all. Her youngest sister wasn't afraid either. But he understood the brown-eyed girl.

She was caged, like he once had been.

When she came to see him, unsure about whether to tell her cousin how she felt, he told her to tell him what was in her heart. Or you'll regret it your whole life long, he said. He knew all too well about regret.

By the time she was engaged, he understood that he had traded the cage of service for another. He had so isolated himself that after the rare times he did speak with others, he felt terrible loneliness all the more when he was alone.

He had been a young fool when he had returned to Downton and run off to the woods. He'd thought he loved Alice, but he'd been more bitter than brokenhearted. A lifetime of solitude, all down to hurt pride and a broken friendship? It was not worth that. It had all been a waste.

Now he was just a sad _old_ fool.

And he had another fear. At first the tremors didn't trouble him much. It was not until one cold day, when he kept trying to pick up stones, and kept dropping them, that he knew it was not simply the weather affecting his grip.

His grandfather had called it "the palsy". Charles saw it as the beginning of the end. In despair, one dark winter's afternoon, he went to the edge of the wood and sat down. Waiting for the inevitable end: sleep, and death.

After several hours, shivering and sleepy, he was saved from his fate by a whining sound. Dragging himself towards it, he found a puppy with a crushed leg, half-drowned in a ditch. He carried it home under his coat. They both revived after warmth and food. He cried that night, grateful beyond words for the little creature. Where there was life, there was hope, he knew. He built a splint for the dog's leg, and nursed it back to health. Thereafter it always walked, albeit with a limp.

With his friend, the woodsman was more at ease. But he still wondered if he would ever truly have a place outside of his self-imposed cage. Was it possible to leave it? Maybe it was too late. It likely was. Now he was at last ready to rejoin the human race, but there was no one to welcome him.

The Earl was too distracted with his daughter's upcoming marriage to help him. The cook was willing to help, but was too busy. The new heir's mother, living in the village, _definitely_ wanted to help, but she was too…much.

Early in the spring he helped Mr. Drewe build a water trough for the pigs. Mrs. Drewe gave them a jug of cider and said that the Carsons' old cottage, next to theirs, had been rented again. To a talented seamstress, come from Leeds. Her name was Mrs. Elsie Hughes. No one knew anything about her other than that she hadn't been born in the city, but in Scotland. That was odd. It was also odd that there was no _Mr._ Hughes.

Charles raised his head from the jug.

_Who_ was going to live there? A woman alone? From _where?_

He said nothing to the Drewes. But he thought about the seamstress all the way back to the woods.

For the first time in a very long time, he heard chatter about someone other than himself. Farmhands in the fields muttered that her accent was unnatural in Yorkshire – why couldn't she have stayed north of Hadrian's Wall where she belonged? The Dowager's butler gossiped that Mrs. Hughes must have abandoned her husband and family in Scotland. One of the small Drewes chirped that their new neighbor planted herbs. She must weave spells too.

He wondered if the seamstress admired the chinking in the stone fireplace in the cottage, or if she'd woven a rug for the floor. He wondered if she hummed while baking. He wondered what she thought of the Family, and if she was happy in Yorkshire.

He wanted to see her for himself. Feeling as though he'd been struck by madness, he watched her tend her vegetables from the safety of the copse across the road from the cottage. Fortunately she didn't see him. Once, after delivering some fresh slats in the village, he saw her looking in the shop windows. She had a pretty smile that brought a smile to his own lips. The cook stopped to talk with her, and his friend said something to make the seamstress laugh. Thereafter he wanted to hear it again.

Returning from the Abbey (the wedding was near, and the Earl's newest Butler was useless when it came to wine), he saw her coming there with something for the bride-to-be. He doubled back in the trees and followed her. He was ashamed that he could not find the courage to speak to her. To introduce himself. He dreaded to think what she had heard from others about him.

Why should he care what a stranger thought of him? A foreign one at that. And yet he did care.

Mrs. Hughes was different. She was polite to everyone, even to those who talked about her behind her back. (She seemed to him to be the sort of woman who knew what was said anyway.) She left milk on the steps for stray cats. She sang as she tended her vegetables, as though she sang only to please herself. Most impressive to the woodsman, she could change. Here was a woman who had left her home and all she knew. And yet she _belonged_.

One summer day his dog never returned to the woods. His small friend often wandered, but had always come back. He began to worry when the dog did not appear by the dawn. Wondering if his only companion had gotten hurt, or fallen ill. When he saw his dog two weeks later at the cottage, being petted gently by the seamstress, he felt both relieved and jealous.

At least my little friend is being cared for, he thought. I will go and see her and explain that the dog is mine.

He made up his mind to go that afternoon, around tea-time. Though he had not lived with a clock for many years, he knew what time tea was.

He thought of the seamstress as he trimmed the old maple. Readying it to cut it down. Humming under his breath, he smiled. He had never used a smoothing iron. Had the seamstress ever used one? It made him think of her, in the cottage.

"Dashing away with a smoothing iron, she stole my heart away…"

He had never met her, but somehow she had stolen his heart.

The sound of his name made him gasp.

She had come to _him._


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: You all are awesome, did you know that? Thank you SO much for the reviews/reblogs. I hope it's not a disappointment that I only have a couple more parts to this story. Maybe it's less of a disappointment to hear that both parts are mostly written, and I have a goal to post them by next Saturday night? And for once I *might* (just might) reach my goal?**

**Not that I couldn't find anything else to write about THIS Chelsie. No, I'm just as in love with this pair as I am with the rest of them.**

**Obligatory reminder that I don't own Downton Abbey, or the characters Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes. They own me.**

* * *

Clutching the blanket to her chest, Elsie spoke despite her belly feeling like it was full of butterflies. "I hope I didn't frighten you."

Her eyes lingered on him far longer than was decent. Up close, he was clean-shaven, with a visible dimple in his chin. There was a fine layer of silver hair on his chest that trailed down to his belly. He was thin for a man of his size, she thought.

Charles couldn't believe she was standing there. In his woods. Her being there made him think of fairy tales and youngest sons and magic. Had magic brought the seamstress there? After all, he had planned on going to see _her_ that very day.

After a few moments he remembered his manners. "Not at all. Mrs. Hughes. How do you do?"

The skin around her eyes crinkled when she held out her hand, and he took it. Hers fairly disappeared inside his big one. With much reluctance, he let it go a beat longer than was considerate.

"Very well, thank you. How did you know my name?" She clasped her hands together. Her other hand was a poor substitute for his.

He fumbled out an answer, mentioning the Drewes. She seemed to accept his explanation. He couldn't be sure. There was something in her smile.

Then he remembered he was bare-chested. He felt terribly embarrassed, though she said nothing about it.

Perhaps she thought it was natural. The air was warm even in the clearing. And just like him, she was barefoot. She had filled out since earlier in the spring. The English summer had lightened her hair, and brought out her freckles.

Her face grew warm when she saw him staring at her. No one had looked at her like – well, as anything other than a caretaker or servant since ever. Not even Joe had looked at her like Mr. Carson did. Self-conscious, she pulled back a wisp of hair that had come loose. She thought she should have worn a hat.

She gave him the blanket she'd brought. Curious, he asked what it was for. For letting her live in his family's cottage, she said.

"That was his Lordship's gift, not mine. It hasn't been my family home for many years. I am glad it is a home once again. It's a lovely place," he said, rather wistfully.

"You are always welcome to see it again. Would you like to come for tea today?" she asked. She blushed then until it felt as though she'd burst into flame.

He raised his singular eyebrows, then smiled, pleased. "I was going to go see you on another matter, so yes, I will. Thank you for the invitation."

"Another matter? What is it?"

"We can talk about it at tea," he said. "I don't want to keep you."

"Well, until then. Good day, Mr. Carson." She would have liked him to bring up whatever was on his mind. But she took her leave, her face glowing like the afternoon sun.

He had been going to see _her_!

She almost skipped home.

Only after she left did he realize what he'd agreed to. He had not set foot inside the cottage in years. It was her home now, not his.

And to take tea with a _woman_! Alone! It simply wasn't proper!

As he finished chopping the maple down, he wondered when he had last cared about what things were proper, and which were not.

She hurried home, swept out the cottage, tasted the cake she'd attempted, and made a face. It had seemed adequate enough earlier but not now. She decided to put out the nice one the cook had given her the day before.

At least she could make tea well enough. And toast.

As the clock ticked she wondered if he would really come. It was not proper for an unmarried woman to invite an unmarried man to her home, after all. Even if it had been his home once.

I never was very proper, she thought. Not in Scotland, and not here.

He took out a little-worn suit he'd only worn to funerals over the years. It was all clean, but there was a hole in the shirt's elbow and the trouser hems were worn. It couldn't be helped. At least it didn't smell musty. He hoped it didn't, anyway. He brushed off his bowler hat and silently thanked the Drewes for giving it to him as a Christmas present the year before.

Along the edge of the woods near where he'd found the dog there were pink and yellow wildflowers. He picked a bunch, then walked on to the cottage.

When he knocked on her door, the dog barked and wagged its tail. The seamstress was relieved – she wanted her companion to approve of the woodsman.

The cottage looked different than when he'd lived there as a boy. There was a bookshelf opposite the fireplace, and he saw what looked like a modern bathroom through a half-open door. The windows were open, though, and a blue-and-white rug decorated the floor, in almost the same spot as the one that had been there when he was a boy.

"Thank you for the flowers. That was kind," she said, smiling and taking his hat. The dog nosed at his knees. "Jamie, leave Mr. Carson alone! I'll get the kettle," she said, hanging up the hat and hurrying to the stove as the kettle sang. Flustered, she put the flowers in water, trying not to think about the feel of the man's fingers brushing against hers. She was glad her small friend liked him.

"Jamie?" He asked, amused. He petted the dog. "Is that what you call him?"

She finished spreading jam on the last piece on toast, and put the plate next to the cook's cake on the small table. "Yes. After King James."

"Which one did you mean? There were several kings of Scotland named James." He said. He sat down as she poured the tea.

"The Sixth."

"Ah. The king who united Scotland and England, how fitting." He sipped his tea.

She smiled as he took two pieces of toast. She'd been right that he liked strawberry jam. "What do you mean, 'fitting'?"

He told her about finding Jamie the previous winter. She might have thought he was lying, but there were little details he could not have known unless it was true – that the dog liked honey, and submitted to bathing only after much bribery.

"I had to give him my last pieces of bacon before he let me give him a good scrub." She said fondly, scratching Jamie's ears. "I like having a dog in the cottage with me, but he does get dirty."

"Digging for who-knows-what. He used to do that when he lived with me. I still find holes in odd places." He set down his cup, hoping she didn't notice the tremor in his hand.

"I hope you don't mind him living here. I didn't mean to steal him from you." She said. She lowered her eyes, feeling guilty for taking Jamie off him. She wondered how long his hands had been shaking. He hid his malady well.

"You didn't steal him, he came here on his own. I'm grateful he has a good home. You feed him better than I did." He smiled at her, and was delighted when she smiled back. As she fussed over cutting the cake, he hoped he hadn't been staring at her too long.

He was glad when she quickly confessed to the identity of the cake baker – Mrs. Patmore. He had wanted to praise it, but knew it was the cook's work after the first bite. They talked about their mutual friend, and moved on from there to the Earl's daughter's upcoming wedding. Before he knew it, the small mantle clock chimed.

"Is that the time? I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was so late." He wiped his mouth and stood up. She did the same, biting her lip. He petted Jamie one more time while she wrapped up some toast for him.

At the door she handed the little package to him. "Take it with you. I wanted to send you home with something."

He thanked her, and turned to go. He didn't want to go, not really, but he couldn't stay. He turned back before he could lose his nerve. "Would you come for tea tomorrow, Mrs. Hughes? At my house? I don't have a stove or one of those new…" he waved his hand in the direction of that _thing_ she'd pulled the toast out of.

"Toasters." She supplied. Her eyes danced, and her mouth twitched.

"I can make toast without one. And I do have a kettle. And fresh milk and a bit of sugar." He said. Her expression looked like she was about to laugh at him.

To his relief, she did not. "Well, that's all we need then, isn't it? I'd be honored to come for tea, Mr. Carson."

He walked down the lane with an extra spring in his step. Seeing Mrs. Drewe standing by her house, talking with another farmer's wife, he touched his hat, smiling at them. The two women nodded as he passed.

* * *

Elsie hemmed the last few stitches and held up the dress, turning it in her hands with admiration.

"There now, that's better. What do you think?" She looked towards the floor. Jamie gnawed on an old piece of rope she had given him as a toy. He glanced up when she spoke, but went right back to his chewing. She sighed.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I should just wear the old one."

The dog whined.

"_You've_ lived with him. What do you think he would like?"

Jamie trotted over to her and licked her foot.

She smiled. "Flatterer."

Before she left, she made sure to check the small looking glass. She had woven her long braid into a bun, and wanted to be sure it stayed intact.

The woodsman's hair, she was sure, had been tamed the day before by liberal amounts of pomade. She would have liked him to leave it in its natural state – she had seen him in Mr. Drewe's field with his silver hair untamed.

"Stop thinking about his hair," she muttered to her reflection. "Or any of that nonsense. He's a friend, is all. A _new_ friend."

She picked up the basket she was taking and shut the door of the cottage. Wispy clouds floating high in the sky, and sparrows chattered from the copse. She let out a breath at the beauty of the day.

"Come on!" She called to Jamie. The dog was nosing at something along the road. He hurried to join her. "We don't want to keep him waiting."

In his shack, Charles frowned as he used the tongs to grab the bread. Today of all days, he did _not_ want burnt toast.

He took the plate of toast outside, giving silent thanks to the cook at the Abbey for giving him a jar of jam. Setting the plate on a stump, he straightened out the blanket.

"Maybe she would rather sit at a table," he said aloud, then heaved a sigh. "No, you already decided it was too warm to sit indoors. And if we did, there is only one chair. We'd be sitting on top of each other…"

He stood still for a moment, remembering how every movement of the seamstress was graceful. Then he shook his head. "Stop thinking about her shape. None of that. She's a friend. A friend you want to keep. Oh! The tea!"

Hurrying back inside, he grabbed the ancient kettle without thinking. He almost dropped it on his foot but managed to set it on the table by the fire. Sucking his burnt finger, he used an old cloth to pick it up again.

Having safely poured and carried the cups to the stump, he was glad to see the seamstress's familiar figure through the trees. Barking, Jamie raced ahead and jumped up on him.

"Hello there," he petted his friend, smiling. "I'm glad to see you, too."

She approached the clearing with a little trepidation. He had invited her, yes, but she felt like an intruder.

One smile from him dispelled her doubts.

"There you are. Welcome, Mrs. Hughes." He stood up straight and held out his hand to the blanket as though he was gesturing her into the dining room at the Abbey. "I hope you don't mind having tea al fresco. There's not much room inside."

She sat down, settling her newly-mended skirt carefully around her. It touched her that he had used the blanket she had given him. "I don't mind. It's a lovely day."

It was. There was just enough of a breeze to keep the air from being too warm. It whispered through the treetops, sounding like tiny voices all around them.

"It feels as though fairies will come out of hiding any moment," she said after her second piece of toast. "This is a magical place."

"I've often thought so. I am glad you see it, too." He hesitated, then half-laid on the blanket, leaning on his elbow, his head tipped back.

She stretched out her legs and leaned back on her hands. It was more comfortable than sitting upright. Though she had wondered if by doing so, he would think her too bold. She caught him eyeing her. Her heart beat faster. She hadn't been a bad-looking girl in her youth. "Have you ever seen fairies?"

"No." A smile curled on his lips. "They're cheeky little things. They hide too well. I have seen squirrels and rabbits in the summer. Not with Jamie here, though." They exchanged grins, watching the dog scamper after an unseen thing in the trees.

"May I see inside your home? If you don't mind," she said.

He glanced at her for a long moment. "If you like." Getting to his feet, he held out a hand to help her up.

Oh, she liked how her hand felt in his. Her palm was rough and callused, but when he held her hand it felt soft. He held her hand like she'd seen the Earl's eldest daughter holding hands with her fiancé.

Magical, he thought as he helped her up. He had always thought the woods were special. Now it felt as though she had brought some new sort of magic with her.

He opened the door to his shack, and stood back to let her look in.

He was right, she thought. It was _tiny_. Room enough for a rudimentary wood stove, a table and chair. One bookshelf, an old suitcase and a narrow, hand carved wardrobe completed the furniture. There was a space on the wood floor where she supposed he slept; the sight of it made her back ache. He would have to sleep in a crooked position to keep his feet from sticking out of the door.

"You certainly made use of all the space." She said, looking up at him.

He shrugged. "Waste not, want not. Now you know why I spend so much time outdoors."

"Hunting for fairies, naturally."

"How did you guess?" He asked, in mock surprise. That made her laugh. It was music to his ears.

They finished off the toast. "Before our tea is gone, I brought something else." She said. She lifted the cloth off of her basket. The sight and scent of what was inside reached him at the same time.

"Apple tart…my _favorite_. I thought I smelled it earlier." His eyes glowed. He took an offered fork from her and cut into his piece with relish.

She was thrilled with his enthusiasm, and could not help teasing him. "Long forgotten is the cake from yesterday. I see. I shall have to tell Mrs. Patmore she's been bested."

He stopped with the fork in his mouth, and swallowed his first bite slowly. She looked so solemn. "That would not be wise. She takes great pride in her baking-"

She burst out laughing at his worried expression. "Of course she does, Mr. Carson. And with good reason. She's a much better one than I will ever be. I hope _you_ will keep it from her that I managed to outdo her. Once."

"You have my word." He saluted her with his fork.

After they demolished the apple tart and emptied the kettle, he took the dirty dishes inside. He was very grateful his hands hadn't betrayed him.

He found her shaking out the blanket. "You shouldn't have to wash it yet." She said, folding it up.

Taking it from her, he set it on the stump. "Would you like to go for a walk? Unless you have to get home."

"Not just yet. Where are we going?" She hoped she didn't sound too eager. Though it was hard not to – she might not have been a woman of the world, but it was clear he liked her.

"A favorite place of mine. It isn't far." Part of him wondered if he was moving too fast for her. But she seemed to like him at least a little, and her mere presence made him feel like a much younger man.

After how he had lived his life, he was in no mood to continue at a tortoise's pace.

He whistled for Jamie, and they set off. She was glad he was leading. There did not seem to be a set path. He held branches out of her way, and helped her over a couple of fallen trees. Other than the sound of their steps and the breeze, it was very quiet. Then she heard the sound of chattering water and saw a flash of light.

"Through here." He held back a branch and several dangling vines that blocked the way. She ducked under his arm. He was only sorry he was behind her when he heard her gasp. He would have liked to see her expression.

Terraced rocks formed a wall along one side of a stream. Light filtered through the trees, reflecting on the water.

"Oh." She put a hand on her heart. "Oh, it's _beautiful_."

So are you, he thought. "I found it on a frigid winter's morning. The stream was nearly frozen over, except for a thin line of water, just there." He pointed to a spot where the rock wall leveled down to the ground. "Would you like to see it from the other side?"

"Can we wade across?" She asked, shielding her eyes from a sunny spot. One tendril of hair had come loose from her braid, and he yearned to tuck it behind her ear. Run his finger down her pretty neck.

"We can wade across, but only here." He cleared his throat and gestured downstream. "If we tried to go over there, I'd sink up to my waist."

"Then here it is." She held onto a branch for balance, and removed one shoe and then the other. She couldn't help but think of him swimming in the stream.

He took off his shoes and left them next to hers. He knew where he was going as he always used the same rocks to cross, but when he turned to see how she was, he wobbled on one of them. Her hand shot out and he grabbed it gratefully.

"You can hold my hand," she said, smiling. "Then if we fall, we'll both go in together."

"I think I will hold your hand." He gripped the rock he was on with his toes. "It'll make me feel a bit steadier."

Her small fingers linked through his, holding on. He had never felt steadier – or better – in his life.

She felt a bit dizzy. Not because of the warmer air or sunlight peeking through the leaves above them. But because of him. How was it possible that they had only met the day before? It felt to her like they had known each other for years.

The view from the other side of the stream was even better. She sat down on a rock, her feet in the stream, and watched the light dancing on the water. The vivid colors and ever-changing shadows fascinated her.

And if she looked at him she would not be able to stop herself from moving the curl off his forehead. She yearned to touch his face.

Sitting by her side, he eased his feet into the water. Jamie dug a hole on the opposite bank. Digging for some treasure, he thought. The seamstress tucked the strand of hair he'd coveted over her ear. In doing so, he saw the ring glint on her left hand. He had seen it before, but had not thought of what it meant.

She saw his face fall. "It isn't what you think," she said softly. "I have never been married. This is my mother's ring."

His heart eased. "So why are you called _Mrs._ Hughes?" He asked. He wasn't angry. He wanted to understand.

"They called me that in Leeds, and her Ladyship heard it from someone she knew. That's why I'm Missus in Downton, too. In Argyll everyone knew I was unmarried. I was Miss Hughes there." She looked away from him, and back at the stream. Thinking of Becky.

"Why didn't you correct her Ladyship?"

"I didn't lie, if that's what you mean," she said with a hint of temper. "But there are things I don't say. If people think they know me without asking, that is _their_ affair."

"I understand that." He said in a quiet voice. Quiet for him.

Her face softened. "Of anyone in Yorkshire, _you_ would understand. Mr. Carson, a married woman gets more respect than an unmarried one."

There was sadness in her eyes. He wanted to chase it away.

"You are respectable. Of the two of us, I am most certainly _not_."

"I think you are." She smiled a little, but her eyes were serious. "You have integrity and honor. People may tell tales about you, but those who know you say nothing bad about you. And those who _don't_ know you – well, you should hear what some of those downstairs at the Abbey say about you."

He raised his eyebrows. "Now if I were a gentleman, I wouldn't want to know."

She raised her eyebrows, too. "But you're not," she said.

"Fortunately." He clasped his big hands around his knee. "I may be honorable, but I am not a gentleman. Tell me."

Some of what she repeated he had heard before. Some of it, he hadn't.

"Earthworms growing under my toes?" He frowned. "What nonsense – I bathe, and I wear shoes when I go to the Abbey, so how they came up with _that_, I have no idea. That was likely Thomas's doing…"

"One of the maids is convinced you have a mad wife," she went on.

"_What!?_"

She did not blame him for being upset, but his outraged expression made her want to laugh. "Bridget told me that while you were in London, you married. When your wife went mad, you left her locked in an asylum." She rolled her eyes. "I told her she confused you with Mr. Rochester in _Jane Eyre_. It's been years since I've read it, but I still remember the plot."

"Quite," he clipped. "I have never been married. Not to a madwoman, not to anyone."

"What _did_ you do in London?" She asked.

He pressed his lips together. She wouldn't laugh at him, he was sure. "I performed. On the stage with a former friend. His name was Charlie, too…the 'Cheerful Charlies' we were called. He was the comic and I was the serious one."

That did surprise her. "The stage? Do you ever miss it?"

"Not in the least, Mrs. Hughes." He hunched over, turning away from her.

She believed him. And yet she felt there was something else. "So you tired of that life, and came back."

He harrumphed under his breath.

Well fine, she thought. She had told him the truth about her ring, but not about her sister. He had told her what he'd been up to in London, but he held something back. He was allowed to have a secret.

He had long thought he'd gotten over Grigg stealing Alice. But the rumor that he had married all those years ago had shaken him. Reminded him of what he had once longed for. It was still an open wound, he thought.

It came to him that the seamstress might help him stitch it up and let it heal.

He let his mind drift. Above them, the clouds drifted with him. The wind whispered through the trees. Water continued to flow over his feet, in its never-ending stream.

Jamie splashed across and shook himself before laying down in between them. Elsie petted his damp fur, humming under her breath.

Charles jerked suddenly, causing the dog to fly into her lap. "Goodness! You startled us. Are you all right?" She asked the woodsman.

He rubbed his eyes. "I apologize, I was tired."

"It _is_ peaceful here." She let Jamie go and stifled a yawn. There were some wet spots on her dress, but nothing that could not be dried.

"We should go back. I wouldn't want you to walk home in the dark."

From the light slanting through the trees, it was not long until sunset.

Her shoes felt heavy and too hot on the way back to the clearing. The closer they got, the unhappier she was. She did not want to leave him. And yet his earlier interest seemed to be gone. He spoke barely a word to her, and was clearly grumpy.

He did not want the seamstress to leave. But she had to, he knew. And it wasn't like she could stay with him.

Standing like an old stump, he watched her pick up her basket. "Thank you for the apple tart. That was kind of you," he said. It was what he meant to say, but it was not what he wanted to say.

He could not say what he wanted to say.

"You're welcome. I'm glad you liked it." She stood there, looking at him. The setting sun glinted through her hair, and he thought he saw reddish tones in it.

"I…won't say anything about your ring. About you being unmarried," he said. "Your secret is safe with me."

She glanced down at her hand. "Thank you. No one will hear about your time in London. That is something for you to share, if you want to."

"Thank you. But I've never shared it with anyone. Until today."

She nodded. He petted Jamie, and gestured for him to go. The dog trotted towards the path. The woodsman turned towards his shack, not wanting to watch them go.

"Mr. Carson?"

He turned so quickly his neck cracked. "Yes, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Would you like to come for tea tomorrow? At the cottage? There's no obligation," she rushed out. "If you have work to do, I understand-"

"I'd love to." The weight in his chest lifted. "I will be there."

She could not stop the smile spreading across her face. He had told her something no one else knew, and he wanted to see her again. "We'll be waiting for ye. Till tomorrow, then. Good evening."

"Good evening."

After she had gone, he lit a lamp inside his shack and lifted it beside his bookshelf. He smiled when he saw what he was looking for.

Perhaps she would like to read _Jane Eyre_ again.


	4. Chapter 4

Through the late summer and into the autumn hardly a day went by when they did not see each other. Sometimes they had tea at her home, sometimes at his. Often they met on the road or waved across the pasture if they didn't have time to talk.

The woodsman found things to do at the cottage: fitting in a new windowpane, repairing part of the fence. She noticed the hole in his sleeve and the ragged ends of his trousers, and offered to do his mending. He protested, thinking that Mrs. Drewe could do it, but the seamstress insisted on doing it herself.

She let Jamie out in the morning and find a shirt neatly hanging on the fence post. The trousers were folded on the step, first one pair, and then the next week, the other. Then his coat. Then a scarf. Then his old quilt.

If she didn't see him that day, she would leave the finished mending where she'd found them. If it rained or she was away, she would leave a red ribbon tied to the doorknob. The Drewes noticed but said nothing to her about the arrangement. She was grateful for their silence.

Others noticed as well, who did not keep silent. Though it was a while before the seamstress or the woodsman heard what was said.

Harvest season had begun, and he was busy helping farmers. Including Mr. Drewe. "Margie heard a rumor in the village," the dark-haired man said to Charles in a low voice. Though they were alone in the field, he glanced around, as though afraid he would be overheard. "Mrs. Wigan asked her if it was true that Mrs. Hughes entertains men."

"_What-_" Charles dropped his scythe.

"With you being her most frequent visitor." Drewe wiped sweat off his forehead with a rag. "Margie told Mrs. Wigan that of course it wasn't true…she didn't think the postmistress believed her. There's talk among some that the seamstress is little better than a prostitute. I know _that's_ not true," Mr. Drewe said quickly. "But I thought you should know. I thought Mrs. Hughes should hear about it from a friend."

Charles was appalled, and feared for the seamstress's reputation. Unfortunately he did not have a chance to warn her before she heard the rumor. Though what she heard was not the same story.

Nor what she heard was wholly unwelcome to her.

It was all-hands-to-the-plow for the wedding.* She was at the Abbey late into the evenings, working on various dresses and last minute alterations.

"You can't pull the wool over my eyes." Her Ladyship's treacherous maid said to her in the servant's hall, two days before the wedding. "I know what's going on."

Elsie met the woman's eyes across the table. As usual, the housekeeper was tucked away in her sitting room with a strong drink, and most of the other servants were gathered in the hall, openly listening with baited breath. She didn't bother lowering her voice, either. "Whatever do you mean? _What_ is going on then, Miss O'Brien?"

The first footman chuckled in the doorway. "Don't try to be mysterious. It only makes you look the fool."

"You would know a fool if you saw one, would you, Thomas Barrow?" She asked the younger man, wishing she was near enough to slap the smirk from his face.

"We all know you. Who you _really_ are." O'Brien said. "You do good work. Very find hand. The hand of one who's been well trained. Perhaps not as a lady's maid, but close. You've worked in a big house before."

"I have. Many years ago." She'd left Craithie Hall after a few years, choosing to return to the farm to help Mam look after Becky. That had been not long after her twenty-first birthday.

O'Brien nodded. "That's what we thought. A girl from Scotland, gone to London to make her way. You were young and far from home. Probably lonely too – there's nothing wrong with that."

_London? I have never been there…_

"Mr. Carson was lonely too, being away from here. He likely thought a wife would keep him from missing Yorkshire. Even a Scottish wife. Unfortunately for you, marriage didn't keep him there."

It all began to make sense to Elsie.

_I see._

"Where have you heard this?" She asked, calm, concentrating on snipping a thread.

"Mrs. Drake. She says the two of you married years ago. She says you're always going to the woods, or Mr. Carson's going to your cottage." The lady's maid gestured to Elsie's hand. "He gave you that ring years ago, didn't he? I don't believe the other things people say about you. All of us here know you're a respectable woman."

The look she exchanged with Thomas said otherwise. The seamstress felt her temper rise. She grabbed her needle, nearly stabbing herself in the palm with it.

"No one blames you for going back to Scotland. Or for keeping your own name." Thomas crossed his arms.

"I pity you, I do." O'Brien said, smooth as silk. "I can't imagine having a husband who runs off and leaves me behind. If I were you, though, I'd be careful about how I treat the woodsman now. He probably expected you to come here and look after him in his old age. Not that a man like him deserves it. He's little better than a tramp. He'll live off your charity while you work yourself to the bone. Keep your reputation and don't take him back, that's what I say, Mrs. Hughes – or should we call you Mrs. Carson?"

One of the hall boys gawked at the seamstress, his mouth open, and several of the housemaids gasped and whispered excitedly from the other end of the table.

It explained a little of why so many of the staff had lately started whispering whenever she had sat downstairs sewing (except for the head housemaid, the cook, and one or two others). She was saved from answering O'Brien by the butler ringing the gong.

Not that she had an answer.

Her mind raced and she did not sleep that night. She almost wished she hadn't sent a message to the woodsman, to call at the cottage a few days after the wedding. She knew she could not rescind the invitation. Early the next morning, she went up to the Abbey for a private word with the cook.

* * *

For the first time since the seamstress had invited him for tea, he did not see her for several days. Though he did have other things to occupy him. Helping hang the bunting around the village in preparation for the wedding. Sweeping the streets. The wedding day came and went in a blur. He stood in the back of the crowd as the bride went by in her carriage with her father. The Earl's daughter turned her head, and gave him a slight nod and waved, smiling.

He kept thinking about the rumor. Of course it wasn't true…but the mere thought of other people thinking men visited her drove him half-mad. He paid more attention to what people said, and who said it. The grocer in the village, who asked after her, or the Scottish doctor, who spoke well of her. The widowed farmer who was friendly to her. He hardly slept, until Mr. Drewe gave him a note from the seamstress, asking him to come to the cottage the next day. That lifted his spirits more than anything else.

The woods were still that autumn morning, as if it waited for something. He thought it might storm later; he knew the signs in the air.

Mrs. Hughes's message had said not to bring anything, not other clothes for her to mend, no flowers, nothing. The note Mr. Drewe had given him had instructed him to come long before tea-time. The autumn breeze was cold under the bright afternoon sunshine, but he was warm in the coat the seamstress had mended. The vibrant colors on the trees were sharp against the blue sky. Clouds built in the east, bringing with them the smell and promise of rain.

He had made up his mind: he knew he could not propose marriage to the seamstress. He could offer her nothing – he did have money put by, but not near enough to buy another home. But he loved her, and he wanted her to know it. He had lived with too many regrets in his life. He was not willing to add another.

He thought perhaps that she loved him, too. How many times had their fingers brushed, as they reached across the table? Their knees had bumped more than once. Sometimes, he thought it was on purpose. He'd caught her looking at him, seen the pretty blush color her cheeks. Now was the time to declare his feelings.

So it came as a shock when he saw the heir's new car in front of her cottage. Jamie barked from the garden.

The head housemaid at the Abbey, a kind young blond woman, sat on the steps. She knocked and opened the door a crack, then went to greet him.

"There you are, Mr. Carson!" She said, a gap-toothed grin on her face. "They've been waiting for you."

"They?" he asked, confused.

Utterly perplexed, he let her lead him to the door. She poked her head inside and pushed the door open. "Here comes the bride."

In the seamstress's cottage, the Earl's eldest daughter stood, wearing her wedding gown.

"Will I do, Mr. Carson?" She asked.

For several moments he felt like a father might, seeing his daughter on her wedding day.

"Very nicely, milady." He said.

"I wanted to show you my dress properly before we left on our honeymoon. Mrs. Hughes suggested I model it for you here." The young lady smiled at the seamstress, who stood in the corner. "She understands how important you are to me."

His heart swelled. Because the Earl's daughter favored him so, and because the seamstress knew him so well. He beamed in gratitude at the woman who had become so important to _him_.

The seamstress smiled, but it was a tentative one, and she looked away quickly. His heart skipped. What did it mean? Perhaps she was just being cautious around the others.

After the bride and the housemaid left, she stood on the front step wringing her hands. He turned from the disappearing car and frowned at her worried expression.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Well – no. Yes. There is something."

The line deepened between his eyes. "I don't understand you."

"No. You wouldn't. Let's go for a walk." She went inside and grabbed her hat. He trudged in silence beside her while Jamie trailed behind them. Ahead of them, clouds built.

She walked with her head down, trying to marshal her thoughts. "Have you heard what people are saying? About you and I?"

He let out a breath. So that was it. "Yes. I meant to speak to you after Mr. Drewe told me what he'd heard. I'm sorry I couldn't warn you sooner. I assume Mrs. Wigan started it." He sighed. "I admit, I shouldn't care about a woman like that spreading false and ugly rumors, but I did worry about your reputation. I've lived here all my life. There's nothing anyone can say about _me_ anymore that would cause offense. But your name should not be dragged through the mud."

Mud? Is that what he really thought? All she could do was to be honest. "To tell you the truth, I wasn't…that offended." She said. Her face flamed. He stopped walking, and she dared to look up at him.

His face was inscrutable, and was as red as hers felt. "Not…that…offended." He said softly. He didn't look her in the eye.

"No. I mean, I was _surprised_, but after talking with Mrs. Patmore, it all makes sense." He still wasn't looking at her, so she went on. "It's all based on a misunderstanding of course, but there's nothing really wrong with it."

He did look up then. He looked, for the first time that she could remember, indignant. Angry. "Nothing wrong with it? There is everything _wrong_ with…it!"

"I don't see why." Her heart raced. "Like I said, it's a misunderstanding-"

"There is nothing to misunderstand about such malicious and foul gossip." He snapped, his shoulders back, his eyes wide. "What sort of woman are you? I always thought you were a decent woman, Mrs. Hughes."

She narrowed her eyes. "Decent? There is nothing _in_decent about it. If anything, I would've thought you'd be pleased to hear what people call me. Embarrassed, but pleased. I had the impression that you at least thought well of me."

After the way he'd looked at her at the cottage earlier, she could have sworn he was in love with her. She did not think he would have been offended by others thinking she was his wife. She willed herself not to cry. She loved him, and she had thought he at least was fond of her.

"How could I ever be pleased with what they _call_ you?" He sputtered. "And how could I think well of you, when you aren't at all what I thought?"

Did she enjoy being called a prostitute, he wondered?

"And what is that, Mr. Carson?" She asked, holding her temper with difficulty. He was far more upset than she'd expected. Despite her restraint, tears pricked her eyes. "What have you heard? What do people call me?"

Was he even ashamed of his own name?

"A-" He held his hands up for a moment, his red face so dark it rivaled purple. "No, I can't say it. It's vulgar."

"Being called your wife is vulgar?" She asked, her eyebrows raised.

"My – what?"

"Your wife."

He stared at her. "Is _that_ what you heard?"

"Up at the Abbey they all think I lived in London years ago and met you while you were there. They're saying we married, and then you abandoned me and came back to Downton. It's the same story Bridget told, except with me following you here like another version of Mrs. Rochester." She cocked her head. "Isn't that what you've heard?"

From the look on his face, the answer was no. He shook his head slowly. "I didn't know people…thought _we_ were married."

"What have YOU heard?" She asked, curious.

"That…you entertain male guests. Including me." He whispered. "Mostly me."

Her face went white, then red. She covered her mouth with her hands. In the distance, he could see the edge of the woods, the tops of the trees rippling in the cold breeze.

"And I said I wasn't offended…" her voice trailed off.

He realized what she'd said.

"You weren't offended when they said you were my wife." He cleared his throat, his face burning, and stared at the ground.

"No." She said, in a ghost of a whisper.

They looked away from each other for a while. She gazed towards the copse where Jamie was digging yet another hole. Thunder rumbled a few miles away.

She had had the chance to marry, once. But she knew that of any man on earth including Joe, the woodsman was the only one she would have wanted to make a home with. She knew it in her bones. Part of her had known it from the first time she'd set eyes on him.

In his youth, he had wanted to marry Alice. But now he knew, of all women, the seamstress was the only one meant for him. There was no one else. Perhaps in another life he _could_ have slipped the ring on her finger, instead of her inheriting it from her mother.

"You're really not offended? About others thinking we're married?" He asked. In truth, the longer he thought about it, the better he felt.

She put a hand on her hat as the breeze picked up. A smile played on her lips.

"I can assure you that the very last thing that I am at this moment is offended."

The next moment, both of them were startled by a tremendous rumble of thunder. He looked up to see a dark sky unload its burden on them.

"JAMIE!" He bellowed, but the dog was already streaking towards them. He turned to the seamstress. "I'm sorry, but I have to go home-"

"Don't be daft! The cottage is closer." He could barely hear her over the pouring rain. He didn't move. "Come on!" She called, running back down the lane, Jamie on her heels.

He waited two seconds, then followed her.

* * *

It was odd. Once back inside and out of the deluge, they didn't immediately talk of the rumors or gossip. They were too busy emptying the water out of their shoes and wiping up Jamie's muddy prints. He built up the fire while she made tea, and instead they talked about the wedding. How nice it was that the weather had held out. How beautiful the bride was, how handsome the groom had looked. How proud the Earl was.

"It's a great relief to him, having his heir marry his oldest daughter. It's the right thing." He straightened out one of his wet socks on the line hanging in front of the fire, making sure it dried evenly.

"They seem happy, which is also right." She said, amused. "I didn't think you were the sort to care who inherits the estate – entails and primogeniture and the rest. Does it matter in the end who gets it?"

"It does." He said, serious. "The future of the House rests on it. The family almost lost it, back when his Lordship's father was alive. I was a footman then. There was a lot of talk that they'd have to sell, and the estate would be broken up. That was part of the reason why I went to London."

"Why didn't you stay there?" she said. "Why did you return here?"

He had never given her a full answer.

He took a long drink of tea, trying to ignore the way the cup rattled on its saucer when he set it down. "Charles Grigg – my partner on stage – and I had a falling out. There was another act who often performed in the same theatres. Sisters. They were called 'The Lark and the Dove'. Alice was the dove. She…chose Grigg*."

"And you were fond of her. You wanted to marry her." The seamstress said.

He looked at her as another rumble of thunder rolled by outside. "So much I could taste it," he said. There was no pity in her eyes, only gentleness.

"Why did you live in the woods when you came back?" She asked.

Such a simple question, with no simple answers. He had thought about it often in the years since. In the end there was only one brutal answer: the truth.

"I hid in the woods because I was afraid. I was afraid of caring for someone, and being rejected again. I was afraid of being told 'You never should have left' by those at the Abbey and of enduring their ridicule. I was afraid of returning to the life of service, and fifty years later regretting it." He smiled a bitter smile. "I have lived as though I didn't care what anyone thought. In truth I cared far too much. And in the end, what did I gain? I know now that it's a young man's pride that craves attention and respect. The former doesn't matter, and the latter has to be earned. There is nothing wrong with serving others. I've found that some of my happiest days are when I've helped his Lordship find the right wines. I should have returned to service long ago, but it's too late now."

He waited for her to ask why. When she didn't, he knew she knew.

"You see." He held his right hand up, his eyes sad. His fingers shook in the firelight. "I couldn't serve at table without disgracing his Lordship, and I would be in no fit condition to oversee the Mad-Hatter's tea party much less the servant's dinner downstairs. It is well that I can still wield an axe or a scythe."

For how much longer, he didn't know.

He was caged. She saw it so clearly. And worse, it was in a cage of his own making. At least he understood that. Sadness, pain, regret…time marched on, relentless, and it was so easy to only see the day to day, only to wake up years later and find oneself seeing nothing but darkness ahead. She swallowed a lump in her throat. She understood him.

More than anything, she wanted to help him.

To his astonishment, she leaned forward in her chair. Their knees touched. "Give me your hand," she said.

Wordlessly, he reached for her outstretched hands. She enveloped his trembling hand in between her two small ones and began to rub it. Though her hands were rough with calluses, he had never felt anything more soothing. Quite soon he felt his hand relaxing and the tremors subsiding. Outside, the rain poured down.

"I am a pauper," she said, low. "I have only a little money saved. I will have to stitch and mend for the rest of my days, or until my fingers give out. I'll likely die with the needle still in my hand."

"You sold the farm." His eyebrows furrowed. "Surely the money you received from that would be more than enough to retire."

"Not after paying off debts. I can never retire." She shook her head. There was a weariness in her voice he had never heard from her before. "You see, I had a sister. Becky. She…well, she wasn't right in the head. And medicines and doctors never seemed to do her much good, but my parents had to try. When I was a girl, I went off to Edinburgh to work at Craithie Hall. In service I could make much more, and I sent nearly all my wages home. But then Da died, and my mother couldn't manage the farm alone and look after Becky, so I returned home. Mam died a few years later."

"And there was only you. To run the farm and care for your sister."

"Only me. Until she died."

His heart ached for her. More than anything, he wanted to help her.

Rain pounded on the roof. The wind rose to a howl.

It was nothing, however, to the storm going on within him. The seamstress's touch reminded him of what had been spoken between them, and what his intentions in coming to the cottage had been earlier that day. He shifted on his chair. "Mrs. Hughes…"

She let go of his hand at once. He wished she hadn't, and he soothed his left hand over his right in a mirror image of the motion she'd done.

"I am sorry. I should not have presumed to do that-" She began.

"I'm glad you did." He said. He thought of rumors, and gossip, and fear.

And let them go.

She glanced at him, her eyes worried. "I had no right to be so forward."

"On the contrary, according to some of the rumors flying about, you had every right," he said. "You weren't offended when you heard others say we were married? Truly?"

He had been honest with her. She had to do the same. "Truly, Mr. Carson. I…care for you like a friend. More," She whispered, studying her hands on her lap. "It isn't proper to say such things, but-"

"I love you." He said, making her gasp. "In my eyes, you are beautiful."

Her eyes filled with tears. She'd been called a bonnie lass in her youth, but never beautiful. Now the man she loved – yes, loved – sat in front of her and told her he loved her.

"Please don't cry. I didn't want to upset you." He looked so worried she almost laughed.

"The only way I would be upset is if you left right now. I-I love you too, you old booby."

He took her hand and rubbed her ring with his thumb. His own eyes reflected unshed tears. For several moments, he struggled to compose himself. "Thank God. The rumor was you had numerous men visit…I knew it wasn't true, but it made me jealous."

"Jealous?" Every time she thought she couldn't love him more, he surprised her. "There is only one man I've ever let inside my door. And that will never change."

"What some are saying about you-it isn't fair to you," he said, shaking his head.

"I don't care what anyone says," she said with some heat. "Why should I care what Miss O'Brien or Thomas or Mrs. Drake or that gossip of a postmistress think? You love me, and I love you. That's what matters."

He kissed her hand. Then he turned it over, tracing her palm and her fingers with his index finger. Her skin erupted in sensation. "I don't deserve you, Mrs. Hughes. I am little better than a vagrant, I know. I have nothing to offer you."

She was finished holding her thoughts inside. "I'm not asking you for anything. Just you. I want you." Her heart beat like it was trying to escape her chest.

"You want _me_?" He raised his head, giving her a smile that warmed her heart.

She brushed several silver hairs aside that had fallen across his forehead. "Yes. You. Charles Carson." She smiled, wrinkling her nose. "Charlie."

He kissed the palm of her hand, and each finger, then pulled her to her feet. "Good god, I want you, Elsie. I wanted you from the moment I saw you."

"If you want me, you can have me." Her voice shook. "As Oliver Cromwell said, 'warts and all'."

Leaning forward, he laid a hand on her shoulder. She closed her eyes an instant before he kissed her.

His soft lips on hers were bliss. His body pressed to hers reminded her that she was a woman. Not a so-called 'lady', which society held as a model, who was never supposed to feel. Or a prostitute, who did a man's bidding for money. She was a woman of flesh and blood.

A free woman, who had found her mate.

There was no sound in the cottage other than the rain thundering down on the roof, the crackling fire, and hushed murmurs and sighs of the woodsman and seamstress entwined in each other's arms.

Gasping, she broke away. It was a good thing his arms were all the way around her because otherwise she would have fallen onto the floor.

He too gasped for air. But he wanted to be clear with her.

"If you want me to go, I'll go," he panted, touching her forehead with his. "I won't press you…but I will never be with _anyone_ else."

She wound her arms as far around him as she could reach, her small hands on his wide back. "Stay with me, _mo ghraidh_," she whispered. "Stay with me always."

Joy flooded through him. He held her gently, and traced a line of feather-light kisses across her forehead and down her cheek. He moved aside a tendril of hair and pressed his lips below her ear, making her moan.

Her corset was entirely too tight. "I-have-to breathe," she murmured. She unwound herself from his arms and began to unbutton the back of her dress. After years of doing it alone, she was used to it.

She was halfway to the bedroom when she realized he wasn't right behind her. He still stood on the rug, half turned away from her. She thought she knew why, and loved him for it, though it wasn't necessary.

"I haven't…I've never…" He said, running a hand through his silver hair. It stood on end.

She licked her swollen lips. "I haven't either."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"I won't break. We're getting on, Mr. Carson, you and I. We can afford to live a little." She smiled. "There's more than enough room in the bed for both of us."

There was.

Jamie snored on the rug by the fire. Outside, the temperature dropped, and the rain turned to snow.

* * *

**A/N: *In canon, Matthew and Mary's wedding is in the spring. Here, it's in the autumn.**

***Unlike in canon, I don't think Grigg here would have come looking for Carson like he did in season 1. The woodsman has nothing to give him, so there also wouldn't be another appearance, like in season 4.**

**So they rushed into…everything. Kudos to the reviewer who wanted a storm to chase them inside so they could kiss. This was written before I posted the last chapter. Well done :)**


	5. Chapter 5

The residents of Downton Abbey and the nearby village never expected to have the earliest snowfall in Yorkshire history. Everyone gave thanks that it had held off until _after_ the big wedding.

Some of the farmers' wives gossiped about the woodsman walking through the snow with a borrowed horse and cart. How he went into the woods and came out again, hauling everything he owned. How he moved into the seamstress's cottage. When asked, Mr. Drewe said of _course_ they had been married since they were young, and "they had a falling out, but now they've been reconciled." He said he didn't see what the fuss was. After that no one said much, except for a bit of whispering and glances when one or both of the couple were in the village.

They settled into their different life with relative ease. Though they did have some struggles. He grumbled whenever she fussed over him (though he also appreciated her caring), and she was annoyed at his hostility to anything modern (though she also understood why he felt that way).

But they were both happier than they had ever been in their lives.

"You've been very quiet today." She said to him one December evening after dinner.

Drying a plate, he set it in the cupboard. "I'm thinking about a lot of things."

"Like what?"

He took his time turning from the cupboard. It had not taken him long to learn that she could read his face like a book. "Like...how every snowfall smells different."

"Snow _smells _different? I never thought of that." She thought it was true. Rain in different seasons had brought different scents on the air, back in Scotland.

"It does. Depending on the time of year, and how cold it is.*" He hung up the damp towel with shaking hands.

She had little doubt that the weather was on his mind. She also was certain that he was thinking of something else. "Well, I am going to take a hot bath," she said after a long pause. "Walking back from the Abbey today chilled my bones."

"Take your time. I'll build up the fire. I don't want you to catch cold." He went to fetch his coat, glad of an excuse to get outside and calm himself down. He was sure she suspected something.

The fire danced in the fireplace when she exited the small, steaming bathroom. There was no need for her to even put on socks. The woodsman sat on the loveseat, petting Jamie.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" The seamstress asked, leaning over to dry her hair by the fire.

"Because you are beautiful." He smiled from the loveseat.

Shaking her head, she couldn't help smiling. "Flatterer."

"It's true. And unlike the stories people tell about the woods, I never met any fairies or nymphs or dryads there. So I didn't see any females drying their hair. Here, let me do that." He got up and reached for the comb in her hand.

"You want to comb my hair?" She asked, incredulous.

He was in earnest. "If you'll let me."

_Let _him? In all her life, she never thought that she would have a man who treated her so well. It wasn't just that he was kind and courteous to her for propriety's sake (as much as propriety mattered to them); he went out of his way to care for her.

She handed him the comb and sat down in dumbstruck silence.

"Am I hurting you?" He murmured, moving through her hair with gentle strokes.

"No," she said, her voice thick. She turned and looked up at him, her eyes shining. "It's just…is this real? Are you really here, you wonderful man? Or is this a dream, and I will wake up at the farm in Scotland or in Leeds-"

He leaned down and stopped her mouth with a kiss.

"It is _not_ a dream, you charming woman," he said, touching her nose with his. "Though I have thought the same…I sometimes think I'll wake in my old home. Alone, with the wind howling through every crack in the walls. No way to keep warm."

Jamie barked. He jumped off the loveseat to go to his usual spot next to the fire.

The woodsman raised his eyebrows at the dog. "True, you _did_ try to keep me warm sometimes, my friend. You just weren't as big as my current companion."

"That's the first time I have been referred to as big," the seamstress laughed. "I am glad I keep you warm. You keep _me_ warm as well."

Chuckling, he continued combing her hair. "I do, especially when you put your cold feet on my leg!"

"_You_ have cold hands," she reminded him. "Yesterday after you came inside you touched the back of my neck. I almost dropped the pot of stew on the floor!"

"You were humming in front of the stove. I wanted nothing more than to kiss you." He moved her hair out of the way and folded down her high-necked nightgown. Nuzzling behind her ear, he smiled when she sighed.

She shivered at the feel of his lips, though it had nothing to do with feeling cold. "Get away with you…I won't have you seducing me. If we go to bed now, I'll have to chop off my knotted and tangled hair."

"How can I seduce you? Surely I don't have the skill," he rumbled, with mock innocence.

She turned and cupped his cheek in her hand. "You know very well that you do."

He raised his eyebrows. "I was seduced by a Scotswoman. Some say she's a witch. Maybe she is. She certainly has cast her spell over me."

"If I have any skill, it's in plotting. A skill all women must learn." She gave him a rather cheeky grin, running her thumb across his dimpled chin. "Most people here say I'm your wife. I don't care about whatever else they might say." She kissed him lightly on the lips and turned around again.

The fire cracked and snapped as he went on combing her hair. His heart felt squeezed, and his mind raced.

She was happy with how things were, he thought. She would not be happy with any change. But she was more open to changes, far more than him.

Would she be open to _this_ change?

There was only one way to find out.

He laid aside the comb. "Elsie."

"Yes, Charlie?" She murmured, sleepy.

Clearing his throat, he moved around the loveseat to sit beside her. "Do you know where I was yesterday?"

"I thought you were in the village, helping Dr. Clarkson put in his new door." She yawned, then blinked and sat up straighter. He looked so serious. "Were you?"

"I was. We finished far earlier than I expected, not long after noon. Then I thought I'd poke around the shops. See if there was a gift you would like."

This made some sense to her. Christmas was not far off; she had done some looking for gifts herself. And yet it was not like him to wander in Downton.

"Did you find something?" She asked.

He scratched the side of his face nervously. "No. Not in the village. You see, the more I thought about it, the more I knew that there was only one thing I'd like to give you. You have given me far more than I can ever give you," he said. He took a deep breath. "But I thought I had better tell you about my idea for the gift, before using the money I've earned towards it."

Her mind went from one thing to another. Jewelry? No, he knew she was content with her mother's ring. A new dress, or fabric to make new ones? But the way he spoke, she had the sense he was talking about something much more than clothing. And he said he hadn't found whatever it was in the village.

"You-you aren't thinking of buying me a house. Are you?" She squeaked.

His eyes went wide. "No! The cottage is lovely. And I could never afford a house…but I am willing to spend more than a few pound's worth on you."

"There's no need for you to spend your own money on me," she said, feeling nervous. "Not any great sum, anyway."

She hated the thought of him wasting his meager savings on her.

"Don't you think you deserve it? I do." He frowned, his shaggy eyebrows coming together.

She put her hand on his. What she thought had been there since the day he told her why he had gone into the woods. It hurt her to say it aloud, but they had always been truthful with each other. "It's not that…I don't want you to feel obligated to buy some great gift for me. I've loved having you here. And when I said the day the storm came, that I wanted you to stay here always, that was true. It still is. It always will be. For me." She dropped her eyes to their hands, not seeing his stricken expression. "But it might not always be that way for you. You've lived your life a certain way for many years. Suppose next spring you feel confined here. Suppose you want to move away, change your life entirely…you don't want to be stuck with me."

She thought he was happy - for the moment. But once it grew warmer again, would he want to stay, or would the woods call him away? The last thing she wanted was to keep him caged.

He was appalled. Had she heard nothing he had said?

"But that's the point." He pulled her chin up with his finger, meeting her eyes. "I do want to be stuck with you."

From her expression, he saw she didn't know what he meant.

"I'm asking you to marry me." He let out a breath, his heart racing.

Her face went from confusion to abject shock.

"Well?" He asked. He had never felt such terror.

"Well…you can knock me down with a feather," she said, her voice barely more than a breath.

In truth she was far away, back in Argyll. Remembering the nights after Becky was asleep. When loneliness overwhelmed her, like the dampness that seeped through everything. Wondering if all the worry and pain and hardship was all that life would bring. Seeing nothing but darkness ahead.

Her man's words broke through the distance. And the darkness.

"…went into Ripon to see how much a special license would be. I can afford it, and I would like to do this. If…you'll have me."

"Ripon?" She asked, still somewhat foggy.

"I went to the register office there yesterday. Most people here think we're already married, so going to Reverend Travis is out of the question." He said. "The important thing is that we would be family. In the eyes of the law."

The word 'family' clicked in her mind like a key unlocking a long-forgotten door.

"Oh, Charlie!" The seamstress cried, bursting into tears.

Pulling her close, he rubbed her back as she sobbed. Jamie got up from the floor and jumped onto the loveseat, whining, trying to comfort her, too.

As she calmed down, the woodsman kissed her forehead. He was heartsick. He had ruined everything…

…then he heard what she said.

She hiccupped, still crying, but her smile, her smile was brighter than the fire.

"Of _course_ I'll marry you – I thought you'd never ask!"

Tears filled his eyes.

"You dear man," she said, trembling. "You dear, dear man. All the time, all my life – I was waiting for _you_. Looking for you. And now I know that I was the one who was lost. I'm found now."

"You gave me a purpose," he said in a wobbly voice. He kissed her hand, the one with her ring. "To love you, and to look after you, the best I can. And you gave me a place. A home."

They embraced, crying and giddy all at once. Jamie wormed his way in between them, his tail wagging.

"And you," Elsie whispered. "You're part of the family as well, my wee lad."

"You'll stay with us, won't you, boy?" Charles asked him. In reply, he got licked on the chin. His bride-to-be laughed.

"He says yes, too."

* * *

Charles went to Ripon the next day and bought the license. They would be married by Christmas.

On the arranged day, Elsie could hardly sit still.

"I should have made a dress, or bought another," she said as they walked up the street towards the register office. She shook her head. "It's too late now."

At least she had an old coat from her Ladyship that covered her plain dress. She had reworked it.

"I think you look wonderful," her bridegroom said. She blushed.

They reached the office door at the same time as another couple. The seamstress and the woodsman stopped to let the younger couple go in first – and then all four recognized each other.

Mr. Bates touched his hat. "Mr. Carson. Mrs. – Carson."

To Charles's relief, there was no judgment in the valet's face. Nor in the head housemaid's.

"Good afternoon," Anna said, smiling. "It's a good day for a wedding, isn't it?"

Rare for December, there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

"It is." Elsie smiled warmly at her. "That blue is lovely on you, dear."

"Thank you. Your coat is beautiful," the younger woman gushed. "I love what you did with it."

"Does his Lordship know you're getting married today?" Charles asked Mr. Bates.

"Not yet. We only just decided last month. And his Lordship is a bit distracted right now, so it was easy to slip away for our half day."

"Lady Mary knows," Anna said. "She's all for it. His Lordship will be too…eventually." She exchanged a glance with Mr. Bates, both looking a bit uncertain.*

Elsie bit her lip and decided to risk it. "We won't say anything. To anyone. Will you say anything?"

She left out the '_about us_', but it was understood. Charles held his breath.

There was an awkward pause.

"What would I say?" Mr. Bates asked. "We came to Ripon today to get married. As for anyone else doing the same, I notice no one but Anna." He gazed at her like a man in love – which he was.

"And I notice no one but you." Anna smiled, looking up at him.

Charles let out his breath. "Well, we don't want to keep you waiting any more. You go first," He said. He and Elsie exchanged glances as the other couple went through the door.

"It will be all right," she said. "They won't tell."

"We'll have to invite them for tea after the New Year." He said. He was reassured by her squeezing his arm.

They sat in the back of the room, watching the valet and head housemaid say their vows. Then it was their turn.

For them, the whole room seemed to disappear.

Just like when she had come to the woods and he had met her the first time.

As they had arranged, she had removed her ring and given it to him so he could put it on her finger. They shared a secret smile over that.

After being declared husband and wife, they congratulated the valet and the new Mrs. Bates. The invitation to tea was gladly accepted, and one extended to the older couple, "once we've moved into our own home," Mr. Bates said.

The Carsons' cottage was warm and cozy. There was a dinner of lamb chops and mashed potatoes, and apple tart.

Though their dirty dishes were unceremoniously left sitting, and the table abandoned without being cleaned. Jamie was bribed with leftover bones.

Elsie stirred in Charles's arms. "What are you thinking of?" She asked. She watched the late afternoon sun dance on the ceiling. Her ring reflected one of the rays.

"You. What else?" He kissed her bare shoulder. "I thought we could go to the woods tomorrow. I can clear a bit of a path to the shack. The meadow is beautiful this time of year. Still, and quiet."

"That sounds nice. But you don't want to stay there, do you? In the woods?" She reached up and wound her fingers through one of his curls.

"No. It's a good place for picnics in the spring and summer, and walks in the autumn. But my home is with you. In this cottage." He kissed her, long and slow.

"You were born here," she said, breathless.

"And now I live here. Again." He palmed her small hand with his own and linked his fingers through hers. She took his breath away. "I live as I never did before. Once, someone said we could afford to live a little."

She skated her other hand across his chest to rest over his heart. "Who said that?"

"The seamstress. My wife." His lips met hers.

"She never lived before. Not like now," she breathed. "Now she lives knowing that she is loved more than she ever dared to dream."

"Who loves her?" He kissed her hand entwined with his own.

"The woodsman. My husband."

And so they lived happily ever after.

**The End**

**A/N: *I have no idea if snow smells different, or if it does, the reasons why.**

***In this AU, there's no ongoing drama or shenanigans with Vera. The only thing John and Anna worry about is how Robert will take their elopement – because he **_**doesn't**_** have a stalwart Butler or a steady Housekeeper at the helm of the Abbey, and most of the stress he endures is due to the chaos downstairs. I didn't want to waste time explaining that.**

**This was never intended to be a long story, and I hope I haven't disappointed you too much. I am so grateful to ALL of you for your reviews, reblogs, etc. If you have time, please let me know what you think of this last chapter. Thank you again, and Chelsie on!**


End file.
